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I Cheated on My Boyfriend with My Rapist
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By seducing my assaulter, I was reclaiming the control I’d lost over my body and identity.
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I told close girlfriends the bare minimum, letting them assume the encounter was consensual.
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My denial was so strong, so effective, that I could sit a few feet away from him like it was no big deal, laughing, chatting, eating lasagna.
After dinner, it became clear that the brother would be joining us at the bar and, strangely, I started to escalate my small talk to flirtation. It was like shifting into an autopilot mode I didn’t know existed. Without a clear thought or strategy, I drank enough to soften my focus and banish my inhibitions, but not so much that I lost control. I knew where I was and how to get to safety. I could pinpoint my friends on the dance floor—the better to dodge them as moved closer and closer to my assailant. Eventually I suggested we go back to his apartment.
Oddly, being back in bed with him didn’t scare me. We rolled around and made out in the bottom half of a bunk bed. It was all very PG-13; the way I might have behaved with a high school crush. He didn’t push for more and I didn’t offer. I woke to find three friends rousing on his grungy couch and shooting me confused looks—they were friendly with my pretty serious boyfriend.
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I knew I should be ashamed and, frankly, worried that my boyfriend—who I’d been with for a year and would go on to date for another three—would find out. But I was neither. Instead, I felt like I’d scratched a hard-to-reach itch. Cheating wasn’t something I took lightly, but whatever deep-seated need I’d satisfied that night was more important than fidelity.
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By seducing my rapist, I extended the shelf life of my denial. Whenever my mind flashed back to that terrifying night in the dorm, the bitter recollection was diffused by a newer, more palatable memory.
andra stories i samma kategori,
I Didn't Just Lose My Virginity When I Was Raped—I Lost My Ability to Enjoy Sex Forever
What I Wish I Said to My Rapist
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A few hours later I woke up—suddenly and disoriented. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I realized that the guy who had just fallen asleep beside me was now inside of me. We were, apparently, having sex. I knew that it wasn't consensual, but it didn't occur to me to protest because I had just had consensual sex with him. I even thought that maybe I had said it was okay and just forgot. The idea of pushing back felt scarier than voicing what I knew to be true: I was being raped.
Many of us have said "yes" when we mean "no," or nothing when we meant "stop." Many of us have also beat up on ourselves as a result, as I did for the next five years.
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I wish I had said, "Get out of my vagina." I wish I had said, "My body does not exist for your pleasure." I wish I had said, "I am not a bad feminist because I let this happen."
What I Wish I Said to the Man Who Sexually Harassed Me on the Subway
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I noticed three men outside a church, one leaning against a pole. As I strolled past, the pole guy screamed at me, "You should be raped!" He bellowed it from the depths of his core. "You should be raped because you're a woman!"
I thought to myself: Caroline, keep walking, don't let this trigger you. I was raped in college and molested in high school. And despite knowing firsthand how wretchedly rampant those abuses are all over the world, I couldn't fathom that someone was actually shouting this. It was so guttural. So raw. It was the unrelenting voice of misogyny in my face.
I turned around, took out my headphones, and said, "What did you just say?"
He screamed it again. "You should be raped because you're a woman!"
"I've already been raped," I said firmly. "Don't tell me I need to be raped again."
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